


Exit Light, Enter Night, Take My Hand

by laschatzi



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angry Sex, Dark Emma Swan, Dark Swan Arc, F/M, true love's tears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 03:59:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4691201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laschatzi/pseuds/laschatzi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All attempts to revert the Dark Swan back to Emma have failed so far. Killian knows time's running out, as soon she will fully give in to darkness, so he's desperately looking for a solution. But the Dark Swan has her own agenda.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exit Light, Enter Night, Take My Hand

He is so much at a loss for words, not even curse words come to him when he throws a huge, leather-bound tome against the wall with a loud, guttural growl, expressing all his fury, fear and frustration. In his desperate quest for answers, Killian has come once again to the abandoned house of the author to leaf through some of the countless books perhaps for the hundredth time. He knows with deadly certainty that time's running out: the darkness that has been kept at bay for quite some time now, in a fragile balance with the light, is settling down more heavily, comfortably in Emma day by day. Every time he sees her, talks to her, he can feel it, and it's frightening: there's more darkness and less Emma.

They have all tried: her parents, Henry, Regina, Belle... they have all joined forces with him and grasped at every straw, but nothing they have come up with has brought them one step closer to the solution of how to save the Savior. Killian cannot and shall not accept this – it is his bloody job to protect her heart, after all, and he will, he must find a way. But he fears that if he doesn't manage soon to make her come back, the process might become irrevocable – the true Emma entirely consumed, her light essence gone for ever... and he doesn't know what he'll do if that actually happens. Therefore, it must not happen. It is not an option, period.

But once more, he hasn't found anything that would seem even remotely helpful, and to be honest, he's afraid that perhaps he's overlooking something. He expects the solution to be so difficult and almost impossible to find, that he maybe isn’t even paying attention to something that might be obvious. Fear grips his heart with an icy, cruel grip, and nothing he has ever experienced – not Cora's malicious fingers clawed around his heart, not the Crocodile's hand ripping it out from his chest – can match this agony. He runs his hand through his hair in a desperate, absentminded gesture. It has grown to be longer than he used to wear it ever since his navy-days have passed, even curling slightly at the nape of his neck, his stubble is darker and thicker, almost enough to be called a beard now.eeping himself well-groomed is something he can't really muster much energy for nowadays.

Suddenly, there's a subtle change in the atmosphere of the slightly dusty-smelling house, and he doesn't need to turn around to look or prick up his ears; he can feel her presence before he sees or hears her. It's like the temperature has dropped almost imperceptibly, and the small hairs at the back of his neck bristle in an uncomfortable way. He knows she's entered the room before he hears her sharp, crystal-clear voice.

“Why the anger?” she asks in soft tones that don't really match the edge in her voice, and he turns around slowly; not after carefully putting a small smile on his face. She's standing in the middle of the room, her head slightly tilted to the side, her lips curved into a flirty smile. “Not that I'd mind the temper,” she croons. “It's quite appealing.” He doesn't even know how she's gotten into the house – he's sure he locked the door behind him – but then, she's the Dark One, after all.

Emma Swan is still frighteningly beautiful; being the Dark One hasn't derogated one bit from the beauty of her face, no alteration of her appearance of the kind that had happened to Rumplestiltskin has usurped her. But there have been changes, of course; he has been watching them unfold for quite some time now, weeks even. Her skin, paler than ever, bears a slight diamond-like glitter – but that glitter is the only thing that reminds him of her predecessor, the other Dark One he'd been trying to hunt down for centuries before. The shape and color of her eyes haven't changed, but the life and light in them have completely disappeared. Those eyes that were always the windows to her soul, that always spoke to him even when her mouth couldn't, are flickering in an icy, glacial glow – they are still talking, but alas, in a language he can't – and doesn't want to – understand. Any trace of affection or warmth is gone.

The color of her hair has subtly, but constantly changed over the last few weeks – instead of the warm gold it is of a pale and silvery blonde now, no longer allowed to see soft shiny locks cascading down over her shoulders, making his fingers itch to smooth them out. She wears her hair in an elegant, almost regal bun high on the back of her head now, every strand in place, perfectly composed, controlled. No room for softness or vulnerability. The coolness of her face, hair and eyes is contrasted by her lips that are tinged in a deep red.

The woman standing before him has indeed the looks of the love of his life, of his Swan, but it breaks his heart – every time a little more – to admit to himself that she's only a shell, a pale imitation of the loving, caring woman he owns his heart, the one who was willing to sacrifice her entire existence in an act of utter goodness. And, like always, the memory of those moments, when he saw her disappear before his eyes in a sickening swirl of blackness, seconds after she'd finally found the courage to confess her love for him, is threatening to rip his heart in two.

But he knows that he has to remain strong – for them both.

“Emma,” he replies in a deliberately light tone, “what brings you here?”

She saunters over to him, her black high heels clicking on the wooden floor, the black coat, tightly girdled at her waist, swinging around her legs like a skirt. “Desire for your company,” she smiles, and his heart grows heavy, because in moments like these she almost looks and sounds like the Emma he knew – almost.

He cocks an eyebrow, allowing himself for one second to pretend there's really his Swan standing in front of hm, flirting with him. “Why, good that you found me then.” He reaches out with his hand and brushes his fingertips over ithe cool skin of her pearly cheek. 

Her eyes hold his without blinking. “It seems though you haven't found what you've been looking for,” she remarks and sways her hand out vaguely towards the books everywhere in the room – they are stacked in shelves, on a huge wooden table, and even piled up on the floor beside the mighty leather armchair.

Killian scratches behind his ear and decides for a soft hint. “Well, do you remember our first adventure?” he asks and tilts his head, withstanding her gaze. She furrows her brow in question, and he continues, “You were looking for a compass to guide you back home. Something like that is what we need now.”

Her smile doesn't falter, although she understands what he means. “And back then you told me everything we need is right in front of us,” she reminds him smoothly and steps forward, right into his personal space. He can smell her, but it's not the smell he's come to know and love, the sweet scent of his Swan he'd recognize anywhere. It's there, but coated with something else he can't quite define. She raises her right hand and lets her fingers wander over the front of his waistcoat, tapping softly on each button. If only her words were true... yes, Emma Swan, his Swan, is everything he needs. But she... isn't her. Although her eyes look at him with an unveiled desire, a dark, yet tempting promise, although it would be so easy to pretend, to just give in to the almost perfect illusion... but no, he will never stop fighting for her, for the real her. Never.

Killian reaches up and puts his hand over hers, tries to pull it over his heart. “Then take it,” he urges, driven by a sudden feeling of it's now or never. He can do only so much to bring her back; if she objects completely, if she fights it with all the frightening dark might that's so strong within her now, he will never succeed. He needs to reach her before it's too late, before the essence of the true Swan will be trapped by the dark side forever. “Leave this all be,” he goes on and bores his blue stare into her green glacial one, “and just come back to what we were before! I know you can!”

Her eyes narrow dangerously, and for a moment he catches a glimpse of the absolute evil that's lurking inside her, not fully unleashed yet, causing a chill to run down his spine. Then she snatches her hand from his and takes a step back. "It's about time you picked your side, Hook," she snaps, emphasizing the old moniker in a nasty way, no sign of the playfully teasing, almost endearing tone she used before she went dark. "I'm tired of your futile attempts to revert me to what I was."

He flinches at her words; they've had this kind of conversation before, but it has been more of a dancing around each other, pretending that there weren't really sides to pick, pretending that they were only tossing around ideas and getting rid of the darkness was only one out of multiple options. But now, obviously, they have passed this point. "Don't speak in past tense!” he replies hotly, not accepting the finality of her words. “It's not irreversible! You are still the same person. The darkness, that's not you!” He's vividly gesticulating now. “It's not even a part of you. It's just a parasite, and you can drive it out!" He's never been as open about the matter as he is now.

"Emma looks at him calmly, seemingly unimpressed by the hint of despair in his voice as she shakes her head in an almost apologetic gesture. "But the thing is – I don't want to.” She shrugs, a terribly nonchalant gesture in his eyes. “Why would I? I'm so much better now.” Leaning a little forward, she puts her palm to his chest again. Her voice is almost urging now. “And you could be, too!"

"You're empty!” he contradicts in an exasperated voice, ignoring her last words, an obvious attempt to pull him to her side. “You let the darkness cast away all your light... all you have to do is let it back in!” He tilts his head and leans forward, his forehead almost touching hers now, an intimate, tender gesture they've shared so often... before. The expression in his eyes is pleading. “You need to fill yourself with light again!"

She pulls her head back and arches a sarcastic eyebrow. "Oh, I'd much rather fill myself with something else... to the hilt.” The way she emphasizes the last word is almost obscene, as is her accompanying smile. She has become more and more openly flirtatious lately, but this blatant suggestiveness is new, and he senses it's not a good sign. “And if you say you don't want that too, you're a pathetic liar," she adds and reaches inside the folds of her coat from where, to his horror, she retrieves the damn dagger, the shiny weapon with her name artfully carved in its blade, and holds it to his throat. "Tell me, pirate – does that make you hard?” she hisses and answers herself triumphantly, “Of course it does.” She couldn't be any more wrong. “It turns you on that I could kill you just like that,” she snarls, “like you were turned on the first time we met, when I tied you to a tree and held a blade to your throat."

The sharp blade scrapes across his scruff, but he doesn't flinch or even blink, only the clenching of his jaw betrays his inner tension. "You're wrong,” he replies calmly, not taking his eyes off hers for a second. “I wasn't turned on, I was amazed. I admired your fierceness and your strength. And that strength is still inside you!"

She shakes her head again. "I was weak,” she opposes, “too weak to take what I wanted, what I deserved. My son. My revenge on the bitch that ruined my life. You." She puts the dagger aside, depositing it on the table almost carelessly. Obviously changing her tactics, she lays her fingers on his right wrist instead, lets them dance over it in an alluring way, and although they feel cool, his skin still tingles where she touches him. She gives him a serious, almost solemn look. “You know that I want you, right?” she ascertains and tilts her head to the side. “I want you by my side.”

Killian's jaw clenches even tighter and he does his best to ignore the enticing timbre of her voice, reminding him too much of a siren. He knows how perfidious sirens can be, has seen the terrible things they can do after having managed to lure a poor unfortunate soul close enough to lay their fingers on them. "You were not weak!” he tells her firmly. “You were a strong woman – decent, compassionate, loving..."

Abruptly, she pulls her hand away from his in angry frustration. "There you go!” she snaps. “Love is weakness!” she repeats the condescending words of the vicious sorceress that was Regina's mother. “And look what it made me: a miserable mess, saving other miserable existences, instead of living.” Her eyes are fiery, furious now; absurdly enough, the iciness never leaving them. “I was nobody, and I had nothing!"

He hates how she talks about herself, as if she believes she deserved all the pain and loss she's experienced in her earlier life; like she really was nobody and not worth anyone's attention. He feels the absurd, burning need to defend his Swan against the vile words of this evil version of herself. "You had...” He bites his lips and starts again, forcing himself not to fall into her pattern of talking like all of this lies merely in the past, has irrevocably gone. “You have parents who love you. You have your son. Friends.” He pauses for a second before he adds, “Me."

“You?” she snorts and drops her mask, the one that has been but a thin veil covering up the viciousness that seems to struggle to get to the surface for good now. “Yeah, I could have had you any time, you were at my beck and call, I'd just have had to snap my fingers." She flashes him a disdainful sneer, deliberately trying to make him angry. "And wasn't that pathetic? You were pathetic.” Again, he doesn't flinch, just lets her insulting words wash over him like dirty mud. She tilts her head and tuts snidely. “A docile little puppy, begging to be kicked, running after that uptight bitch in the red leather jacket who wouldn't let you fuck her.” Her voice is raising a bit higher now, like she's talking herself into a roll – a roll of vitriol. “Please. Don't you have a pair of balls in those pants?” For a moment, she takes the time to let her gaze wander down his front and rest on his crotch for a second, and he can almost feel it physically, before she directs her stare again at his face. “Where's the man I met?” she questions. “The pirate? He wouldn't have asked twice for what he wanted.” She leans forward while he takes her tirade quietly on the outside, whereas deep inside him a fire of anger starts to glimmer. Her green eyes are piercing his, and she's baring her teeth in a feral grimace that makes him shiver as she speaks. “He would have taken it."

She has partly succeeded; he's furious now. "No, he would not!" he barks in his impressive voice, and Emma smiles with malicious satisfaction. She can perceive it with all her sharpened senses: she sees his resistance crumble, his patience wear thin; she hears the hot edge in his voice, and fuck, she smells his rage. Killian speaks through gritted teeth now, barely controlling his anger, scraping all his willpower together to do so. "He might have been a selfish, vengeful bastard, but he was not some other person. It was always me.” He hits his hand against his chest to underline his point. Believing in good form even – and especially – in his pirate days, Killian has never been the one to blame other people – or circumstances – for any villainous deed of his, and she knows it. “Me making bloody bad decisions,” he points out, “and then me rectifying them.” He shoots his ringed index finger at her like a bullet and growls in outrage: “And I would never have taken a woman against her will, because even then, I had a code. And so do you."

His eyes are sparking with fury now, and Emma smiles almost sweetly. Like mercury, she switches to soft and slinky again and leans closer, raising her hand to his face. Without moving his head, his eyes follow the movement of her fingers when she touches the strand of dark hair that has fallen over his forehead. Her voice is almost tender when she speaks. "Who says it would have been against my will?” she asks and bats her eyelashes. “I always wanted you, and you know it.” Gently, her fingertips follow the curve of his left eyebrow, and she adds in that soft, almost singsonging voice: “From the moment you were fucking me with your eyes on that beanstalk." Killian cringes at the crudeness of her words. He surely has nothing against dirty lovers' talk, but her words don't sound dirty in a hot, wanton way. They are the opposite: they're just cold, loveless and cruel. He averts his eyes. "I was just to weak and too much of a coward to just take what I wanted,” she continues. “But now, I'm not anymore. You are mine, and you know it. And you want it.” She reaches for his hand. “Take my hand and come with me, and we can be and have everything you ever wanted." Her voice is alluring, tempting. There's the siren song again, but he resists it, like he's resisted every bloody siren song he's ever heard in his long, seafaring life.

He shakes his head. "I had already everything I ever wanted!” he tells her firmly. “I only wanted you!"

Emma Swan narrows her eyes, all the softness gone again, and raises her chin. “A man unwilling to take what he wants isn't worth one minute of my time,” she declares coolly and steps away from him.

Killian is alarmed, and the feeling that he's losing her becomes almost overwhelming. “Emma, wait!” he pleads.

The terribly beautiful creature before him furrows her brows – it makes her pearly skin glitter – and shakes her head with a disdainful snort. “You make me sick,” she spits. Then she turns around and starts to walk away.

His thoughts are racing. He must act now, knowing with deadly certainty that if she walks out on him now she will be out of his reach for ever, irretrievably lost. With three long steps he strides over to her, grabs her elbow not so carefully with his hook and spins her around. “I said wait!” he tells her firmly, the echo of his loud voice thrown back from the walls of the big, sparshly furnished room.

She looks at him in surprise, a mean gleam in her eyes, remarking with an almost triumphant smirk, “Look who's found his inner scoundrel again.” Her eyes flicker down to the hook on her arm digging into her flesh through the fabric of her coat, before hiking her gaze back up at his face mercilessly. “Have you decided what you want now, pirate?” She almost spits the word out.

Killian swallows. “You,” he replies in a rough voice, “I want you. It's always been you.”

She tilts her head in a gesture that might have looked girlishly charming on his Swan. But the Black Swan makes it look like a cruel predator's gesture, curiously observing its victim. “Now that's more like it,” she comments and gives a brisk nod. “You can have me, Hook. But on my terms.”

He feels his lips curve into a sad smile. “Doesn't that sound quite familiar to me.”

She's done talking, obviously. She reaches out with both hands, grabs the lapels of his leather jacket and pushes it down over his shoulders. Killian understands and shrugs it off, almost reluctantly, as she smiles like the cat that just got the cream. She puts her hands to his shoulders and walks him back a few steps and finally pushes him down in the big leather armchair. “Sit down,” she commands. “That's a good boy.”

He's looking up at her from his sitting position with a burning rock sitting heavy in his belly, the feeling of defeat consuming him from inside. Never taking her eyes off his, she gets rid of her coat quickly, and it lands on the floor with a dry, rustling sound. Underneath, she's wearing a tight, black leather skirt that barely covers the upper half of her thighs and a blood red satin blouse with ancient-looking, black floral patterns embroidered on it. A vague feeling of familiarity makes him knit his brows before the realization hits him that her outfit is a blunt imitation of his own old pirate attire, and he wonders if she's planned all this, planned to hunt him down today for good.

She saunters over to him, and it's almost like her feet don't touch the floor; at least her heels make no sound which is almost impossible physically. The moves of her long limbs are elegant and smooth like those of a panther ready to strike its prey. Again, a malicious smile curves her beautiful mouth and he swallows, not really sure what she has on her mind – but then, deep down, he knows.

When she's standing in front of him, she bends forward and puts both hands on his shoulders, and he's shocked to find his instinct screaming at him to pull away from her touch; before he can react in any way, however, she straddles him unceremoniously, her burning gaze never leaving his, practically willing him to look into her eyes. The expression on her face is threatening and sultry at the same time; her smile widening as she combs her fingers languidly through his dark hair, softly tugging at where it curls over the collar of his shirt. Against his will, he's hypnotized by her eyes, and suddenly, he feels a sharp pain at the left side of his throat. He realizes that she's scraped her clawed fingers along his skin, her sharpened nails leaving a deep scratch. Quickly, she darts forward and licks across the wound. While she does so, she flexes her hips and grinds her center down against the growing bulge in his jeans, and they seem so awfully tight all of a sudden. Her fingers wander down his throat almost tenderly now, dancing along his collarbones while her hips start to rotate in a deadly rhythm on his lap. The realization fills him with horror that his body is unmistakably coming to life under her wicked ministrations, and he knows he's doomed.

Killian's head slumps back against the back of the chair in defeat and despair... although he hates what's happening, he knows he'll have to play along, because she was going to walk out on him, likely forever. Therefore, his only way to maybe, just maybe get to her is to play her game. The perfidious logic is: to try and manipulate her into reverting back to who she was, who she really is, he has to allow her to manipulate him. But the worse thing is, the sickening thing, that a tiny, sordid, despicable part of him is enjoying it... but he hates that part, hates it with every fiber of his being. Because that is not who he is, and not who he wants to be.

It's also not what he wants it to be like when they finally have each other for the first time... no, it shouldn't be like this, it's plain wrong. It should be an act full of love and passion and devotion, and not just hunger and rage and sex, tainting everything that's between them and turning it into a terrible travesty. But he has no choice: he will play along with the hope to get through to her at some point. His heart is aching, his soul screaming – but his body is reacting. He's determined, however, not to make it so easy for her, he will not let her set the pace all by herself; if this has to happen, he will have control over it. Killian Jones will not be her – the Dark One's – submissive toy.

“Let your hair down,” he demands in a rough voice.

“Why?” she asks wickedly and arches an eyebrow. “Too elegant for your liking when it's up?”

“No,” he replies harshly, “I want to pull it. Down with it, now.” It is a command. The expression of his face matches the tone of his voice – stern and dangerous.

She's satisfied with the change in his demeanor, her eyes sparkling and glittering with vicious delight. “Ah, now we're talking, Captain.” She cocks her head to the side and turns it a little, exposing her artfully wrought bun to him. “Why don't you do it yourself?” she challenges.

Killian narrows his eyes and digs his hook into her bun, tugging roughly, not paying any attention if he might hurt her or not. The pins holding her hair in place spring away and are scattered on the floor, the icy blonde strands tumbling down over her shoulder. It's the first time he sees her with her hair undone since she became the Dark One. Emma smiles triumphantly, baring her teeth again, and God, he hates that smile. But if he's to play along, he shall do his best to be convincing.

“That's much better,” he growls and entangles his hand in her locks. They feel cool and a little rough, not like the smooth silkiness he's used to threading his fingers through. Emma's lips are still curved, and he pulls her closer, aiming to kiss that smile off of her mouth. He hears her groan, and then her mouth is on his, assaulting him, devouring him, and it's like she's trying to pull the dear life out of his lungs, to suck him right into her darkness. While she's occupied with his mouth, the rhythm of her hips becomes painfully faster until she’s actually riding him. She's tugging his bottom lip between her teeth to the point of pain, and he's so shocked by the combination of sensations that shoot through every part of his body that he lets go of her hair, like he's touched something so hot that it burns his skin, and not in a good way. He feels her fumble at his chest, and then there's a forceful yank, paired with a tearing sound. He's not sure if she's done it with magic or if the Dark One's superhuman strength was enough to accomplish this, but with one move of her bare hands she has ripped both his shirt and his waistcoat open, the buttons of both garments peppering the wooden floor now around them.

She chuckles triumphantly and releases his mouth with a wet pop, sliding a bit back on his thighs, and he's almost grateful that she's taking the pressure off of his restrained erection for a moment. Then she bends forward, aiming for his now exposed chest she sees for the first time. Not wasting any time with exploring him carefully, she rakes her nails through his chest hair and presses hot, rough kisses to his sternum only to slide directly to his left nipple. She sucks it between her lips and then her teeth without further preliminary, swirling her tongue around it. It's arousing and repulsive at the same time, because it shouldn't be hasty and feral like this, but bloody hell, she damn sure knows where his buttons are. He tries to bite back a groan, but he can't; his own animal side is getting the better of him, and he despises himself for that. Before Killian's emotional torment can take possession of him again though, a very physical pain rips him from his swirling thoughts as she bites down hard. He draws in a sharp breath, and, absurdly enough, his hips jerk upwards, seeking the friction once more, his damn traitorous body having a mind of its own again.

Emma raises her head and looks at him, a sardonic twinkle in her green eyes. She licks her lips, and somehow it reminds him of a snake, darting its forked tongue in and out on the hunt for its prey. The Dark Force damn sure has a talent for turning its victims into reptiles, obviously. “Is that to your liking, pirate?” she drawls smugly, her voice low and confident, and even her choice of words doesn't sound right. It's like she's trying to sound like him.

She never looked less than his Swan to him than in this moment. He clenches his jaw so hard it's almost painful. “Is that really how you want it?” he asks flatly, tonelessly.

“Precisely how I want it,” she replies, and then she frowns – like she's a bit confused – and tilts her head to the side, scrutinizing him closely. For a moment, he has the impression that she's not so sure about herself, about what she's doing anymore, and a ray of hope brushes him. “You,” she clarifies, her voice softer now, “I want you. I've always wanted you.” Suddenly, she puts her palm to his cheek, her skin dry and cool, stroking her thumb over his scruff. “I was just too afraid to admit it,” she adds slowly, thoughtfully. She smiles, and it looks less feral now. It's like a veil somewhere inside her is lifting, about to reveal the essence of her true self Killian knows is still in there.

He draws in a deep, careful breath. "Emma..."

But then, in the blink of an eye, the moment is gone. Her smile remains, but even if it hasn't changed externally, he sees it's a mask now. She even bites her lip a little coyly. “But now I'm not anymore,” she adds in a husky voice, her gaze never letting go of his, hypnotizing him. He scrutinizes her again, searching the depths of her eyes, desperately looking for anything that will show him a glimpse of his Swan. But he finds – nothing. “I missed you,” she purrs and lets her fingertips wander across his flat stomach, following his treasure trail down to the waistband of his jeans, “let me show you how much.” He shivers as she pops the button open, and the zipper is down in the blink of an eye; he isn't even sure if she actually touched it or if she undid it by magic.

Then she slides completely off of his lap now and is kneeling in front of him, between his spread legs, and tugs down his jeans as far as it's possible with him still sitting in that armchair. No, his mind screams as her hand reaches inside, but his blood is boiling, mixed with hormones and adrenaline, and his body doesn't bloody well listen to him, and his hot, hard flesh springs into her waiting hand.

She licks her lips, and it looks obscene. “What a fine piece of cock,” she croons and grasps him firmly, languidly pumping twice before lowering her head onto him. “And all mine.”

“Oh God, Emma,” he groans, hips bucking upwards, and clenches his fingers around the armrest of the chair until his knuckles turn white whereas the pointed end of his hook presses into the other armrest, cutting deeply into the old leather. It still feels wrong, but he doesn't have the energy to fight it.

She chuckles again as she licks a moist, yet fiery trail along the underside of his twitching flesh and strokes the flat of her tongue over its head. Somehow it's like she's marking him as hers. And despite of the sick arousal that's gripped him, he manages to shake himself free from the malicious glamor she put on him when he realizes that all her shallow talk about missing him is nothing but her switching her tactics, playing with his feelings, using his love for her as a weapon because she thinks that's the right way to get to him. Dark One lies, Dark One tricks. The Crocodile's words ring in his ears, and they never have been truer than now. But he'll be damned if he lets the Dark One use him like that. She wants to play games? He's learned to cog centuries ago. By God, two can play that game.

Just when she's about to suck his cock completely into her greedy mouth, Killian grasps a fistful of her hair and yanks her head up roughly, away from his twitching flesh. She lets out a sharp hiss indeed worthy of a snake and glares at him in surprise.

“Not like that,” he presses through clenched teeth and jumps up from the armchair abruptly, pulling her up to her feet by her hair with him. She stares at him questioningly, but also expectantly, and she surely isn't complaining. It's like she's secretly challenging him with her eyes, and she's all reptile now; a beautiful, elegant snake, but as dangerous and deadly as they come. Killian feels fury ripple through him, because she – the creature – looks like nothing can impress her, nothing can get through to her. She looks so bloody self-satisfied, like everything is going exactly like she's planned. A red curtain of boiling ire lowers before his eyes; he swears he shall get through to her all right. “You want pirate?” he growls, a feral rumble deep in his chest. “I'll give you pirate.”

She lifts her chin, and he releases her hair, bringing his hand and his hook to the deep v-neck of her blood-red satin blouse. A triumphant spark glitters in her eyes when he rips the delicate fabric open, exposing her chest. The sinful, black lace of her tiny bodice seems to mock him, challenge him; with one forceful move of his hook he tears it apart, too, and if the sharp tip of his dangerous metal attachment leaves a red mark on her delicate, glimmering skin, he doesn't give a damn.

“About bloody time,” she pants when he grabs her hips and lifts her up, but he doesn't notice her smug smirk as she wraps her long legs around his waist, her short black leather skirt riding up until it exposes the lace-trimmed edge of her black hold-up stockings. His blood rushes in his ears, and he barely feels her fingers tug roughly, possessively at his hair as he slams her against the wall, the impact causing her to gasp out her hot breath in a wild outcry. She lets go of his hair for a moment to push his shirt and waistcoat down his shoulders, and he shrugs them off impatiently, holding her weight only with his hips as she's pinned against the wall.

“Come on, pirate,” she urges breathlessly, “show me some pillaging and plundering!”

Killian knows what she's hinting at: their first date, which seems like ages ago now, when she asked him out to dinner or something, her determined boldness leaving him equally perplexed and thrilled, dropping him that line. And now she's using it again, abusing it, tainting the memory, their encounter now being a filthy travesty of anything that could have happened, if she had her own place back then. Fresh anger wells up in him at her cunning, yet transparent, attempt to manipulate him, not realizing that him succumbing to this anger is exactly what she wants. He holds her up with his hook under her ass and reaches down between their bodies, roughly feeling for her center. His fingers land on lace – of course – and it's soaked already.

She draws in a sharp breath. “All ready for you,” she purrs, her fingers digging into his bare shoulder, “all you have to do is--” She doesn't get to finish her sentence, because he doesn't even bother ripping her panties apart; he just pulls them aside and, without grazing, teasing or any other preliminaries, pushes his length roughly into her, all the way in with one single thrust, and the sound she makes – ecstatic, lecherous and almost barbaric – is not from this world, nor any other world he's ever been to.

Immediately, he picks up a frantic pace, pounding into her relentlessly, and it feels great, and it's terrible and devastating. He knows he shouldn't be here, they shouldn't be here – they should be at home, on the Jolly Roger, the waves gently rocking the ship while they are enjoying each other for the first time with wonder and passion and love in their eyes after slowly undressing, discovering each other. They should be intertwining their fingers, whispering sweet nothings in each other's ears, finally exchanging their I love yous, while he worships her body in the most tender and delicate way. Instead, he's fucking her hard against the wall of an abandoned house, both with their clothes partly on, rage driving him, while she laughs devilishly and spurs him on with wanton words. And all because she had to do the Savior's duty again, because she never for once could think of herself, of him. Like she still was afraid to just be happy for once.

“Why did you have to do it?” he blurts out suddenly, “why did you have to put everyone else ahead of yourself, of us? Of me??” His words come out with ragged breath, in the rhythm of his hips driving into her with force. Her eyes are wide with obscene fascination, but she doesn't reply; the only sound she makes are the pants she lets out every time he hits her inside. “What more could I have done to convince you?” he rages on, his red-hot fury taking over every fiber of his being. “What more than die for you?” he growls through clenched teeth. “I felt that bloody dagger stab my back and pierce my heart, and it still wasn't enough to make you believe in me, in us?!” For a moment, it's like he's used up all of his energy, because really, what more is there left to say? His movements lose a bit of their drive, and she's not gonna allow that. She hasn't had enough yet.

“That makes you angry, right?” she hisses and claws her nails at his back. “Is that all you got?” she spits at him, and the rage burns in his heart like acid, spreads through his body like wildfire, consuming him. He picks up the violent pace again, and that obviously satisfies her. “Yeah, that's it, show it to me,” she urges, “show me all your fury. Let it out.” She pushes herself from the wall to meet his thrusts, take him in even deeper. “That's good, pirate. Feels good, doesn't it?” He shakes his head, because it doesn't, but he cannot stop either, because it fucking does, because it's so tempting – she is so tempting, and it's so easy to give up the struggle.

“You were always afraid that people would abandon you,” he accuses, “but you were the one who abandoned me!” He feels like shouting out everything he's held back for so long.

“That I did,” she pants, “and you have the right to be angry! Pour it all into me,” she urges, “jab me with your rage!”

“Shut your bloody mouth,” he growls and lunges forward, roughly crashing his lips to hers, sucking her exquisitely curved upper lip between his teeth. When he tastes her blood on his tongue, he's suddenly thrown off track and pulls back in shock. He stills for a moment, ashamed of himself, his hips stop moving, and it's like he's woken up from some drunken haze. His sudden backwards move makes him stumble when Emma's weight is no longer supported by the wall in her back but is hanging completely onto him. Then his legs give in beneath him, and they tumble to the floor where he lands painfully on his knees. The sudden move breaks their connection for a moment, but Emma grasps his hair again and lets herself fall back, down on the floor, and pulls him with her.

“We're not done yet,” she declares in a harsh voice, “finish the deed, pirate!” When she sees fresh anger flicker over his face, she lets out a triumphant laugh, wild, scraping at the edge of madness. Her malicious smile spurs him on, and he slams right back into her, eliciting an ecstatic cry from her sparkly lips that sounds like it's coming from the throat of an animal.

Killian isn't thinking clear anymore, he isn't thinking at all. He's raw, physically and emotionally, and he can't wrap his mind around what's happening here. This infernal creature beneath him, so heavenly yet so evil, is the love of his life, and at the same time she isn't. Deep down, she loves him, he knows she does, and yet all she does is spill venom over him. But he also knows that isn't his Swan, it's the darkness in her, threatening to consume her completely. What he doesn't understand is why the hell she isn't bloody fighting it... she seems all too eager to succumb to it, to fully embrace it. And it infuriates him when he remembers how long it has taken her to accept her role as the Savior, her magic, her feelings for him – and now it's so easy for the darkness to engulf her. And he, what in blazes is he doing? He's fallen into its trap. He's allowed the bloody Dark One, speaking through her mouth and acting through her body, to manipulate him. He wanted to make her revert to her old self, and instead he's the one who's easily slipped back into his old villainous skin, become what he was before and far worse. He's about to let the Dark One win in the end. Oh God, what have I done? What am I doing?

“Maybe you're too far gone,” he pants, “maybe I can't save you, but I'll be damned if I don't even try it, and if I get killed in the process then be it!” Her triumphant expression freezes in consternation, and Killian is back, fighting his anger, taking control again. “Do you think I have anything to lose? I?” All the fury is gone from his voice, and he shakes his head.

He doesn't even realize it, because it's not – at least not yet – deliberate, but the frenzy suddenly deflagrates, and he slows down. The passage is fluent, but at a certain point it's not hard sex anymore nor rage or a battle for dominance. His love, the ardent love he feels for his Swan, is washing over him, soothing away all his fury and despair, replacing it with determination. And he knows, if this is the end, he's going to make it right. If he has to leave this world, his last act will be one of unconditional love. No words fall from his mouth now, he lets his eyes speak for him, and they caress her face and silently beg for forgiveness for those moments he's let the darkness get the better of him. He lowers his face to hers, the tip of his nose briefly touching hers, and her eyes grow even wider, terrified almost, the omniscient age-old force bare of all understanding.

The Dark One is startled at Hook's change of pace and demeanor, his tenderness and the complete absence of fear, rage or any other negative emotion – startled and alarmed, for negativity of any kind is the thing this force thrives on. Normally, when people are confronted with the powerful face of evil itself, they beg for their miserable lives, the stench of terror insulting the nostrils of the Dark One. Or, what's more interesting, they try to usurp the force for their own good (only, that it's never really for their good). Not this man though. Whenever he's found himself face to face with the darkness, he's shown nothing but defiance, laughing into the face of death, even challenging it.

Even demons can be killed... I'll find a way.

Go ahead, Crocodile... do your worst!

I'll die fighting before I let you use that bloody hat on Emma!

And, what was even more disturbing – most times, the pirate hasn't been driven by greed, hunger for power or lust – no, love has always been the force motivating him to defy the Dark One over and over again, love and courage, the willingness to put his own life behind everything else.

You know, she truly loves you. You could have her forever, or all the power in the world. It's your choice.

The Dark One has never understood that. What kind of option is this even? It's beyond ridiculous, really. The Dark One knows that the power of love isn't to be underestimated – but being aware that love, true love, is the most dangerous magic, the most powerful of them all, doesn't mean grasping the concept of it. The Dark One has seen people doing stupid things for love, of course. But that putting someone else's life or happiness ahead one's own is the natural consequence of truly loving a lover, a child, a friend, has never occurred to this old evil entity. Altruism and self-sacrifice have no room in the Dark One's universe of selfishness.

Hate, terror, greed, lust, rage – that's what the Dark One understands, but nothing of that can be seen in those blue eyes hovering over her face. And in the way Hook moves inside her now, brushes his lips to her sweaty temple, lies nothing but tenderness and something that must be love, because it's so old, powerful and dangerous that suddenly the Dark One feels shudders of cold fear rippling through its essence for the first time in maybe a thousand years.

No, no, no – she cannot allow that. This is not going how it was planned. "What the fuck are you doing?” the Black Swan hisses. “Don't stop! Is that all you got?!" she throws at him again, the repeat making it shallow.

Killian smiles sadly now and replies with tender simplicity: "Aye, my love. That is all I got."

“That's pathetic!” she spits. “You're pathetic! I don't want this!"

He doesn't flinch nor falter. "But this is what you'll get,” he insists and keeps pouring all his love into her instead of his anger. “Because this is who I am. Who we are. No force, whatever twisted, can change that."

Emma – not the Dark One – slowly turns her head from one side to the other, eyelids fluttering, while memories flicker through her confused, troubled mind... and Hook's words suddenly mingle with her of her own voice in her head, speaking with determination: No one gets to decide who I am... You just gotta punch back and say “No, this is who I am.”

But who is she? She tries to remember, she tries hard, and for a moment her soul leaves her conscience, her body even, and floats through the mist, through the years, her past. A lost girl, an orphan, unwanted and unloved – at least that's what she's been thinking for a long time – betrayed and let down again and again, never worth a second look, a second thought, a second chance. Everybody has dumped her, left her, used her for their own purposes, played her like a chess figure: all those foster parents, even Ingrid to some extent, Lily, Neal, Walsh... everyone except for him. She remembers that now. He has always come back for her, and sacrifices have never been sacrifices for him but bare necessities – whether it was his ship, his heart of his life, he's never hesitated to give it up for her.

She tries to focus on his eyes, and they are incredibly blue; they conjure pictures of the ocean, its color and its perfume, the peacefulness of the horizon. They symbolize a huge part of what's right in her life, of what's pure and good. She remembers now that she told him once she'd always choose to see the best in him, and he replied And I, with you. And hasn't he just proven this statement to be true? Hasn't he just confirmed that despite everything he still believes in her, like he's always believed in her?

You can do this... I have yet to see you fail.

You are still the same person. The darkness, that's not you! The strength is still inside you!

The strength... what is that strength about? He loves her. Love... yes, she remembers that this love – the one he quietly, persistently showed for her, but also her own love for him that started to secretly, sneakily blossom inside herself – has terrified the hell out of her once. So how could it be her strength now? Emma and the Dark One are both confused, afraid – and, absurdly enough, for the same reason.

Killian has never stopped moving, he's watching the flickering of her eyes. With worry, he sees that she seems far, far away – not because the darkness has banished her for good (at least not yet), but it's more like she's experiencing some sort of revelation, perhaps. All his senses are sharpened now as he's observing her focus her eyes on him again.

"Hook...?" she says it with a questioning undertone, almost a pleading one; this time, there's no cruel mockery in the way she pronounces his old moniker.

Immediately, he catches on the subtle change in her voice, her confusion. All the sassy Dark One smugness is momentarily gone, and only the lost little girl is left in his arms, clinging to him in what seems like a plea for salvation. Perhaps this is it, this is the moment, the only chance to get through to her. "Emma...” he breathes, “please, come back to me."

She presses her lips together and shakes her head, fiercely digging her heels into his ass in a desperate attempt to make him pick up speed and force again. “No,” she gasps, “no... love is weakness!”

He hasn't used the word love yet, and he takes it as another sign of hope that she has mentioned it now. “You're wrong!” he growls, anger sparking up in him again, but this time it doesn't unleash more rage or cause him to drive harder into her. This time, it fuels his determination, because he's caught a glimpse of her, of his Swan, and suddenly he knows she's still there, struggling to break free and rise to the surface again. Her nails dig into his back in a mix of furious urging and a desperate cry for help. And God help him, he will answer that cry. He slows down even more, forcing the rash pushing of her hips to adapt to his moves, those being nothing but pure worshipping now. “Love... is... strength,” he utters breathlessly, the rhythm of his words in sync with that of his hips as each careful, languid thrust becomes a prayer.

She writhes in his arms, her eyes wide now, sparkling, and he realizes that tears are starting to pool in their corners, real, honest tears. He knows that the Dark One does not cry, but bloody hell, Emma Swan does. “Killian...?” she whispers. Her palms are flat on his sweaty back now, all aggressiveness gone.

"Emma, my love...." He never stops moving inside her, pouring all his love into her, and if this is not enough to make her understand, to bring her back, there is indeed no hope left. And now he needs her to hear it – she knows already, of course, but he needs her to hear it, and he needs to say it – the words he didn't have the time to say before she was taken away from him, the words he's held back when she came to him as the Dark One. “Emma,” he pleads, “I love you, too.”

She presses her lips together in despair while the orgasm is building up deep within her, he can feel it from the beginning fluttering of her inner walls, and her eyes flow over now, salty tears spilling over her cheeks, and she's every ounce the lost girl now. “Too late,” she gasps, her voice tiny and broken, “it's too late...”

When he sees Emma's torment – because this is Emma, his Swan, bucking beneath him in agonized ecstasy, trying in vain to fight it – finally his own tears fall, because he knows this is the end, this is their last chance being ripped from them. And to know that she's fully aware of it, that this lost girl has to realize she's irredeemably lost again in the end, her pain, breaks his heart more than everything else.

The hot drops fall from his eyes on her sparkly cheeks, crossing the path her own tears have washed across her skin. Mere moments before their first shared climax, their tears unite and in an instant, everything around them fades from existence.

A force, stronger than everything he's ever known ripples through them, lifting their trembling bodies from the floor with might. But it's not some outer force simply washing over them, it's inside – he can feel it in his own belly – popping up like a bursting blossom, pouring the fairest of lights and the coziest of warmth into them. It's so abundant that it flows from them and basks the whole room in its gleam so that there's no space for darkness anymore. Unnoticed by them, the name Emma Swan on the shimmering blade of the dagger disappears, letter by letter, and leaves the weapon blank save for artful ornaments. And the centuries old dark force that has been the demise of countless beings, human and non-human, innocent and guilty, simply ceases to exist, defeated and condemned to extinction by True Love’s Tears.

Then there's only silence left and utter peacefulness, and she lays completely still in his arms. Her eyelids flutter, and when she finally opens her eyes to look at him, they are wide and green and terrified – and Emma Swan through and through. She blinks through her tears, and when she speaks, her voice is croaky, like she hasn't used in a long time, but all the sharp, crystalline edge is gone, and the girlish undertone touches something deep inside him when she says: "Killian?"

He exhales and shifts his weight on his elbows not to crush her, as he's still buried deep inside her, and touches his fingertips to her face, that beautiful face he has loved for such a long time. The texture of her skin has altered, it's warm and radiating again, like he remembers it from before. The only thing that's sparkling now are their joined tears and the beads of perspiration evoked by their frantic coupling that, blessedly, turned into pure lovemaking in the end. Killian still can't believe what just happened.

She mirrors his gesture, raising her left hand to his cheek, brushing her thumb over the faint scar, and repeats his name like a spell, her voice pleading this time. That wakes him from his state of paralysis, and he opens his mouth to answer her, but has to swallow twice before he's able to get it out:

"Emma."

When she hears his voice, she smiles, and it feels good to smile again, to really smile, instead of just pursing her lips into a malicious smirk or bare her teeth in a feral grin. She feels the warmth inside her again, and she feels completely balanced – the sensation of some intruding force dragging her into opposite directions, trying to tear her apart has faded into thin air. It's like some kind of fog has lifted, a thick, impenetrable fog that has been her constant companion before, an invisible, swirling cloud that reeked of decay.

She gasps out a breath she's held, full of relief and blissful disbelief, and there are his eyes directly before hers, his blue eyes that have been her undoing from day one, but in the best way. Suddenly she remembers and understands... she understands how she's been able to hold up that inner struggle for so long, to keep the darkness at bay, to resist the temptation of completely, fully sinking into it, embracing it. It's been the memory of those eyes, the last thing she saw before that dark, old power devoured her; those eyes holding her gaze until the last moment, full of pain, of fear – full of love. It's been the memory of that love – the love radiating from him, but also the love she's finally had the courage to express. Love is strength.

Suddenly, she becomes aware of the hard wooden floor uncomfortably pressing into her back, and she notices that she's a bit sore. She shifts a bit underneath him, and her heart breaks a little when she sees the expression of his eyes change – from shock and wonder to regret and shame, an expression she remembers all too well from his not-so-long-gone days of self-loathing. He furrows his brow, and she feels the muscles of his forearms tense that are resting on either side of her head, supporting his weight. He slightly shakes his head, and a damp strand of dark hair falls into his forehead. When he speaks, his voice is almost breaking.

“Oh God, I'm so sorry, Emma,” he almost sobs, “forgive me...”

She knows he's about to lift himself from her, to break their connection, and that he's ashamed of what has just happened, and her heart breaks a little more. Emma puts both hands to his face, cups his cheeks with her palms and stops him, locking her eyes with his.

“Don't you dare, Killian Jones,” she tells him almost sharply, and he freezes in mid-movement, his red-rimmed eyes widening in confusion. “Don't you dare to apologize,” she continues more softly and lets go of his face, sliding her arms around his torso, wrapping his muscular, sweat-covered body in a firm embrace, still holding his gaze with hers. “And don't you dare to move,” she adds, barely more than a whisper, pulling him down to her once more. “Hold me.”

He obeys and stills, his hand caressing her hair gently, carefully, and she knows he wants to make up for the rough handling before, even if he's really not to blame for it. The marks on her body – her bitten lips, her bruised back, the soreness between her thighs – have been inflicted by him, but only after she'd driven him. He leans his forehead to hers, both their skin slippery with sweat, and closes his eyes; it's almost like he can't bear to look at her. She runs her hands up and down his bare back in a soothing caress and whispers his name again; she hasn't said it like that – tenderly, lovingly – for such a long time, and now she feels like she wants to make up for that.

“Killian,” she murmurs softly, and he lifts his eyelids to look at her wearily. She smiles and nuzzles his nose with hers. “I love you,” she says slowly, deliberately, almost curiously savoring the words on her tongue, and yes, they feel right, “so much.” She's utterly relieved to see his furrowed brow smooth a bit, and finally the expression in his eyes grows softer, less pained, accepting.

His fingers move to her temple and run slowly down her left cheek until they rest on her jaw, his ringed thumb gently stroking the dimple in her chin. “Don't you ever leave me again,” he replies, his voice still breathless, but firm, when he emphasizes: “Ever.”

"I won't," she promises and turns her head a little to the left, leaning into his palm. For a moment, her eyelids flutter shut, and Killian can see the exhaustion on her face, the dark circles under her eyes that have been concealed by the pearly, unnatural context of her skin when she was the Dark One. He was obviously wrong to think that she's given in to the darkness easily; it might not have been visible on the surface, but obviously her soul, her true light essence has struggled hard to keep the darkness at bay.

He feels the fierce need to soothe her body and her soul, and he lowers his face to brush his lips over her cheek where the traces of their tears are slowly drying.

Emma hums in contentment, and now he slips slowly, very carefully out of her. "Don't,” she protests and opens her eyes again, but he shushes her softly and slides to her side, pulling her flush with him.

"Let me hold you properly, my love," he whispers into her hair, "just for a moment."

She sighs and snuggles into his side, burying her face against his chest and wrapping her arm over his stomach, hand resting at his hipbone.

Just for a moment, he repeats in his thoughts and tightens his embrace. He knows they'll have to face the world soon, their family and friends, but this moment belongs to them. Later, they will start to pick up the pieces, and he knows Emma will have to deal with what happened while she was not entirely herself, and she'll have to struggle.

But they'll find a way, together, and he will be there to hold her hand. Always.


End file.
